Aitch-Bar

Writing About (Mostly) Not Astrophysics

Author Archives: (David) M.


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Panda-monium

Let me put that right in my calendar, assholes.

The Internet is making some unwarranted assumptions about me. In specificum, that they can come into my house and show me pictures of how they’ve put Kung Fu Panda and World of Warcraft in a blender and then expect me to do something with that information. My entire goddamned morning web routine is throwing this in my face, which makes me think this is specifically targeted. Now I’m tracing back through my entire life, trying to find the moment when I made myself a target of choice for this particular dickery. My sum total WoW experience consists of having watched that one South Park episode. I have on occasion played a Video Game, but I never told Google that, and I had the lights off and the doors locked, and my phone was in my pants, both far away from me. I once told that panda joke where he eats, shoots and leaves. I apologize if that was a spoiler. (Here’s another: Apollo 13 survives re-entry.) Also there was that time when I searched for “mmorpg racist panda conical hat” over and over until I blistered.

Now that I’ve been pulled into the vortex, I’m having a crippling flashback to the strategy-based Warcraft games, which had no World attached to them, and had no requirement that you be social at all. In fact, the early games forbade it, but more because the Internet then consisted of a stream of pigeons slowly flapping from house to house — white for 1, grey for 0, was the mnemonic they taught us in school. Each of the three original games was groundbreaking in its own way. Warcraft I, back in ’94, pushed the limits of how much bullshit one could crowd into sidebars; lesser computers would grind to a halt while attempting to render the next-generation shaded button borders. Warcraft II, released a year later, was never actually played; instead, one would simply begin an orc campaign, pause, and turn the speakers up to max, because the high-energy timpani-driven score was like doing coke. I’m sure Warcraft III did something notable as well. I can’t remember what, because now I’m listening to the Warcraft II soundtrack and preparing to jump through the ceiling and fight a cop.


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This Cabin and Your Manhood Both Need Dozens of Animal Heads

I’m feeling this rustic cabin, my friend. Very countrified. Check out that fireplace, what is that, a forty-eight inch? Nasty. It’ll be roasty toasty up in here come snowfall. Understated chandeliers, that’ll make for some good ambience. And you’ve got the feng shui in full effect with this chair and table arrangement. That’s all great. Only one problem I’m seeing, and that is that someone might catch sight of your living situation and then confuse you with a ball-less old lady. That is a potential issue. And as far as I can figure, there’s only one thing for it: we’re going to fill this place with animal heads until it’s standing room only.

See this fine-grain wood paneling between the mantle and the doorjamb? That’s got some badass texture, great with the overall motif. Here’s what I’m thinking: animal head, right on top of it. There’s only one thing with greater aesthetic value than woodgrain, and that is a summer coat preserved by world-class taxidermy. That’s card-carrying virile young male status. If they actually made cards for that, they would be made out of pelt.

Don’t make me get buck in here. And by that I mean, three hundred pound white tail with a two foot antler spread. Here, there, on that rafter, and pretty much anywhere we’re not going to have moose. Then you should mix it up with some marksmanship trophies. Skeet shooting is where it’s at. I’m thinking this entire area, to the window, to the wall, all skeet skeet. That says “man” with no room for miscalculation, which is important for you vis-a-vis the ball-less old lady situation. I bet you keep getting lost kids coming to your door asking for porridge or whatever. It’s because they look around, they don’t see any giant stuffed bears in attack position, and they figure you’re an old crone who’s probably got a kettle of something tasty going.

What’s that, in the far corner? That looks to me like some free space. You should see that free space and be thinking, this is bullshit, and then fill that gap with a hippopotamus. I’m thinking posed in full roar, like it’s the movie Congo and you’ve just willy-nilly rafted in on its territory as if you pay the rent. He’ll be like, “You folks must be lost. Allow me to serve you up a fresh helping of sixteen-inch incisors. Hope all your supplies weren’t on that one boat, because I just snapped into it like a Slim Jim. This is Hips territory, next time bitches stay on land where bitches belong.” That says nothing but hard. You may as well put up a giant phallus for all the subtlety in that message. A trophy dong. And below it? Two giant balls affixed to their own plaque, because structurally speaking you’re less likely to tear out the wall with separate support points.

When you have a party in here, people will be like, “wow, check out those heads. This guy is awesome and completely sane.” And deep down they will feel the seed of fear sprout a bud, because they’ve seen Highlander and they know how insanely powerful you probably are by now and how far you can jump. Then you can regale them with the story of how you were snowbound in here for five weeks and you fever-dreamed a complete production of A Streetcar Named Desire, with you as Blanche Dubois and a Bengal tiger playing the part of Stanley Kowalski. Rangers found you at first thaw au naturel and heavily depending on the kindness of strangers. That part isn’t mission-critical, but keep it on the back burner.

This is going to take some serious investment from you, because you’re going to have to grow a thick mustache and wear a safari hat all of the time. Which is probably not going to go over well with the missus. I can tell because she’s been glaring at me since I first opened my mouth. If this isn’t going over well it’s going to be even harder to pitch you on turning your minivan into The Mystery Machine. I should have opened with that idea.


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This Week in Wreak

In counterpoint to Ryan’s affluent shoppery, there is the market of Real America, and the signature publications thereof. We live in the post-Gutenberg era, and quite separately have mastered the art and science of ballistics, so it is only natural to expect combinations of the two. What I am never quite prepared for is the gusto with which these combinations are made.

Allow me to BabelFish that for you: Damn there are a bunch of magazines about guns in this grocery store.

I list from the top left:

  • Rifle Firepower
  • Pocket Pistols (note double-checked, this is a firearms-related publication)
  • Crossbow Revolution
  • Personal & Home Defense
  • Guns
  • Gun Collector
  • Small Arms
  • Special Weapons
  • Black Guns
  • Gun
  • Bowhunter
  • Guns & Ammo
  • Concealed Carry Handguns
  • Military Surplus
  • Traditional Bowhunter

 

The greatest part was something I only just realized after a detailed analysis of the snapshot of the rack: To the very right of these selections I can spy titles including Disney Princess, The Amazing Spider-Man, Spongebob, and other colorful booklets. The children’s literature is directly adjacent to the murder section. I have not legitimately fathered a child (as you may recall), so I cannot opine on this with true conviction, but personally I would at least get a NASCAR buffer in between those two selections.


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At Least They Can’t Read This?

We need to talk about this Amish situation. Has anyone actually tried offering them a combustion engine free of charge, and seeing if they’ll just take it? Like, leave one under a tarp, turn around, close your eyes, see if it’s still there after five minutes, and if it’s not then just walk away without raising the point? Here’s why I ask: Because I just drove straight through the back of a horse-drawn buggy. Three times, actually, in three separate locations. I’m not sure why the Amish are a nocturnal people, and I’m not sure why they use such poor reflectors, although I imagine that one can only sew and churn so high a glossiness into a material. I blew right through them. Hat buckles sent asunder. Wooden shoes sailing through the air. Two thousand pounds (max) of bison meat strewn about the road. No, I don’t actually know anything about the Amish. Yes, I just cast them as Dutch Mayflower pilgrims in The Oregon Trail. I got as far as typing “amish wiki” into the Google bar and then decided, fuck it, I’m on vacation.

As long as we’re on the subject, here is the rest of the mosaic stereotype:

  • Yodeling
  • Master Chocolatiers
  • Hunting turkey with blunderbusses
  • Windmills, which turn water wheels, which turn other, smaller windmills
  • Constantly repelling Shawnee raiding parties
  • Owning Ikea
  • Pop culture representations include The Lollipop Guild, and at least one of the locations in The Bourne Identity

 

And here are some outstanding questions I’d like answered:

  • How was Hans Christian Andersen Amish when they aren’t allowed to read or whatever?
  • How did my 3G work so well during my entire trip through their [reservation? stronghold? protectorate?]
  • What is their take on Jeff Ireland as GM of the Dolphins? Do they squarely blame Tannehill for the team’s ridiculous performance against Houston, or is it an all-around shoddy offense?

 

Yes the Ohio trip is going great so far. I’m going to go lay down so that a train can wake me up in an hour, every hour, forever.


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On Druuuuuugs

True to my Irish heritage, I’ve picked up some goddamned malady just days before I have to wedge myself into a metal bird tailor-made to destroy eustachian tubes. When you are, as one occasionally is, faced with the choice between flying with cold congestion and having a horse make love to your ear, you pause to consider the two options. Neither is ideal, but there is some computing required to determine exactly which is less mal. On the prevention front, I’ve done everything that the doctors recommended as a deterrent, including sleep deprivation, excessive alcohol consumption, and surrounding myself with hordes of incoming freshmen. I’ve started my typical regimen of buying every medicine that might potentially apply to my ailments, finding the maximum allowable human dosage, and taking double that. Because I am twice the man. And because the FDA is a frivolous liberal construct. I can fly now, but I am also covered in ants.

Thanks to that class I took in high school this only took like four hours to Photoshop. I look up and it’s dark out. Day well spent

I’ve been checking with Brown facilities management if I am allowed to spray Raid in the gym to get rid of the undergraduates swarming on the equipment. They said that I should not do that. They would prefer that I do something else. I counter with the point that the building is about six months old and they already have a brofestation. There’s at least one on almost every machine. The air smells of Axe and Natty Ice. It rings with the crack of high-fives and disparaging comments toward women. Am I using this bench? Yes. I am laying on it. Using it.

I guess swimming is an option.

A poor option.

For sad people.


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Got Damp, Didn’t Sleep, Ate Chinese

My return to the east coast has been five Magic School Bus books’ worth of self-discovery. All but two of these discoveries relate to how difficult it is to carry out my life whilst entirely submerged in water. Normally I love humidity because it means I don’t have to perm my hair and I can grow mold directly in my sinuses instead of having to snort it out of the vegetable crisper. But, after returning from a place with lunar aridity, I feel overpowered. Holler at me if you enjoy moist, because you’ll fucking love every goddamned floor, wall, and table surface in my apartment. You’ll be mashing your body against them like you’ve taken a double hit of ecstasy while singing Marvin Gaye and bathing in rainbows. I’ll be in the corner, wearing shoes.

I’ve slowly been replacing “sleep” with “writing.” I have a lot of buffer here, thanks to the past twenty-seven years where I slept a few extra minutes each day. Those minutes were stored somewhere safe, or invested wisely in some Roth 401A, from which the return dividends are then tax advantaged with subprime deposit withdrawals and rollover minutes. It’s going well, words are moving. The time and manner of the inevitable endgame is less clear; I can tell that eventually I will simply owe the world an apology.

Monday was the first annual Labor Day dinner outing at P.F. Chang’s. Between the three of our group, we had it from an estimated 0 people that this was a worthwhile endeavor, and one person told us literally five minutes before our arrival that we were all going to contract what was made to sound as some form of Montezuma’s revenge. But we pressed on, as we had just donned our supper jackets and the private reservation had already been made. What was most impressive was the restaurant’s dismissal of the idea that food was actually requisite for our enjoyment of their establishment. Over the next six hours I observed the same tray of eight wonton soups delivered over and over again to the same distant table, to a man whose face was never seen, by a boy who has never aged and knows nothing of greed or petty jealousy. I had a Coke that must have refilled at least twelve times. And then at one point I looked down and discovered that, not only was there food, but there was food no longer. I opened my mouth in wonder, and it was blocked by something. That something is known as The Great Wall of Chocolate; it is an admixture of the darkest cocoa, lead, and original sin. Two of the really real actual Terracotta Army knelt behind us in silence, a twinkle in their eye that bespeaks having just watched three souls eat product containing horsemeat soaked in brine. We checked in with one another after twenty-four hours. Ryan reports an overall decrease in his desire for food of any sort. My atrophy is more universal; I could go either way on nutrition, motion, and breathing under my own power. And Chris is gone as far as I know.


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I Have To Get These Hungry-Man Dinners Into My Freezer Before They Thaw, and You Will Not Stop Me

Oh. Shit. Look what’s back in stock. Hungry-Man. It’s been a long time, my friend. I’ve been eating two half-pound frozen dinners in one go, waiting for your return. Your commercial had me convinced that I would get blown away by carelessly-aimed hair dryers if I didn’t gorge myself at every well-preserved meal.

Hold the phone. I wasn’t even aware of some of these options. Home-style Meatloaf? Mexican Style Fiesta? Way to make Boston Market look like an asshole. Popcorn Chicken with Spiced Rum BBQ Sauce? Let me stop you right there. Sold. No way that’s going to make my night end badly. Let me just help myself to one of each. Better beat the rush.

Let me just carefully read the fine print, like I do on all my freezer products. Do not thaw? Jesus. Let me pull out my calculus. We’re starting at 0°, it’s 82° with 36% humidity outside right now, my car can get down to 68° with full A/C over a period of 5 minutes, the house is 15 minutes away, plus 1 to get through the garage where it’s undoubtedly over 98°, and each meal is 1 lb and 150 in2 with a heat capacity roughly that of ice. So there’s maybe eight minutes of contingency here. T0 was 30 seconds ago, while I sat here calculating. We are running the clock.

Well. This just got extremely fucking real.

Pardon me, old lady perusing the Birds-Eye products. Impressive, the way you managed to wedge your cart sideways in the middle of this narrow aisle. I assume that this is part of some master plan too grandiose for me to comprehend. Dare I not disturb this careful arrangement, in case you’ve positioned it in the middle of some space warp and it’s holding the universe together like an episode of Dr. Who. Let me jam myself sideways against the freezer and squeeze around. That’s fine, don’t even notice. The structural integrity of these delectable chicken bits hangs precariously in the balance and I’ll parkour over you as if that’s what it should be like to live in modern society.

I can’t help but notice that this line is taking a long goddamned time. Contingency is burning. Excuse me, sir up at front, buying fruits and shit. Good for you. A hearty bounty from the cavernous bowels of Nature herself. Here’s a proposition for you. Add these two Hungry-Men to your inventory, check them out, give them back, and we will all be better for it. Here is some money. You seem to be spending your life savings on organic melon, I fear these TV dinners would topple you into financial ruin.

No. What is that card. Put that card down. Thermodynamics doesn’t rest because you made a bad gamble that the world would suddenly join hands and embrace American Express. The Nickelback of credit cards. Here’s a fifty. This ought to cover your plants. Look at me. Take the fifty. Buy these Hungry-Men. Buy them now.

Let me explain to you how science works. If even one molecule of the chocolate splotch that magically hardens into a brownie thaws before it starts absorbing micro-rays or whatever, it’s game-fucking-over. That’s not me talking; that’s chemistry. It will leak over onto the corn and form a colloidal shit matrix. That corn is second to none but I will not force down maize brownie. That is sick. That is where typhus came from.

Yes, Officer Dawdles, I was doing 96. Probably because I have somewhere extremely important to be. Does God Himself have a hit out on these mashed potatoes? They are pre-gravyed. The gravy is already on them sir. This is a truly volatile mix of poorly understood ingredients and proportions. If this pile reaches liquid phase in an uncontrolled environment there is a nonzero chance of it coming alive and gaining sentience. It will debate us. It will gain a seat in Congress. It will levy taxes on hand-made jewelry and smiles. It will destroy our way of life. Or I can get to my freezer. I am putting this car in drive. You can shoot me and then lose the battle in November, or you can choose freedom.

Yes, hello son, that is a very nice plastic bag space helmet and matching santoku-knife-turned-laser-gun. Is that our toaster with forks sticking out of it? Ah, his name is Robotron. You know what, son, go play with your robot, maybe show him your aqueous bath tub space capsule, or your fortress in the dryer. No, I did not know we had super juice in a leaky bottle under the kitchen sink. I’ll come try some in a bit.

First, there’s something I need to get done.


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Wedding Reparations

20120901-111256.jpgChicago is exactly how I left it six weeks ago: Tropical, with a haughty disdain for conditioned air. Upon arrival at the hotel, Jacob and I immediately set about a terraforming operation. Our success is shown at right. The fact that a thermostat even goes that low is simply stellar. That the room can actually start to approach that goal is incomprehensible. But comprehense one must; it is goddamned cold in hurr. Were I to make advertising for this hotel, it would be something direct like “Red Roof Inn. Go Ahead. Freeze Your Balls Off.®” For the first time in recent memory, I’ve gotten to use a comforter without having to peel it off in the morning. I don’t think I’ve slept so well in years.

And while I was laying in bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and half-eaten, stolen Dunkin, I considered the past. I can think of no greater gift on the day of Isaac’s wedding ceremony than reparations. Thus do Jacob, Preyas and I formally apologize to said Isaac for the following, in approximate chronological order:

  • Tying your hair to a chair
  • Getting you stuck under that row of desks and then keeping you in there after Mr. O’ Malley showed up
  • Carrying you around in that trash can and bolting when Mr. Curtis showed up. There is no defendable answer to “Explain why you are in a trash can”
  • Characterizing your handwriting as “seismograph barcode” even though that was dead-on
  • Stealing your iPod for like three years and returning it when its market value had decreased substantially
  • Putting you in the overhead compartment of a Coach bus
  • Repeatedly using you as a suicide bomber to get through Halo on Legendary difficulty
  • Treadmill launching
  • Not properly conveying how much fun driving is. It’s a lot of fun, actually
  • More or less everything Preyas has ever said or done
  • Possibly spilling beer on you at your rehearsal dinner and then, non-consecutively, telling you to “suck it”
  • Not getting you a better wedding present than this

Our adolescence was truly some insane crucible. Good thing we’ve matured.

We love you, we miss you, we wish you and yours the best. I’m excited to finally be able to use this in close to proper context: Mazel Tov.


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A Monologue From the Spider Creeping On You Above the Shower

Don’t you mind me, girl. I see you standing there, not sure what to do. You stride into this bathroom all confident, thinking this shower is just another trip under the faucet. You didn’t expect to see Barry up here, spinning a little thang. Barry didn’t expect to see you either. Barry don’t mind, girl. Barry don’t mind.

That’s right. Take it all off. You don’t have to be shy about Barry. Barry’s just a harmless arthropod. No clothes here; we’re all natural in this bathroom. You dropping that towel. Me in this chitinous exoskeleton. It’s your birthday, girl. Let’s wear these suits.

Start that water slow now. You gotta give the pipes a chance to warm up. The water is destroying my proteinaceous silk weave that I inexplicably put under the shower head, even though this ain’t my first night here and I should know what’s up. That’s my bad. Some strands are still in the water, getting tugged on. They’re rockin’ me all the way up here. That’s some good vibes. Barry’s gonna ride these waves. Ride ’em all night long.

Mmmmm.

I hope you like eyes, baby. I’ve got four pairs of them. And they’re all on you. I see your loofah, waxing on. You get clean. I use my chelicerae to periodically groom my extremely fine leg hairs. They sense vibrations in the air. Maybe from predators. Maybe from unwary flies. Yeah. Can you feel it baby? I can too. It’s such a good vibration. It’s such a sweet sensation. I do not know if those are lyrics to a song that already exists, as I have no cognitive storage. Maybe Barry will drop an album.

A lesser man would be drooling for you. Barry’s above that sort of thing. Barry drools only to liquidize nutrients, as my organs are not physically large enough for solid ingestion. Let Barry treat you with respect. Just you and me, some pinot, a low candle, some fresh Drosophila. Barry knows the way to satisfy a lady.

You will have to excuse me for my indiscretion; you captivate me. Watch as I enter an elaborate courtship dance designed to prevent you from eating me before the act of conception. Like these moves? Yeah. Who’s #1 in this disco? Right here, baby. These legs are all akimbo.

The time draws near. I will spread my man seed in a special-purpose web and then transfer it to the base of my pedipalps. Yes. That is actually how I do it. I hear you girl. It is hard to believe in God after learning something like that.

Leaving so soon? Seems like we only met ten minutes ago, or about eighteen hours in spider time. I’ll see you tomorrow girl. Don’t worry about Barry. Barry will be right here. Or possibly over there. That other corner looks like it’s in need of some habitation, Barry style–

Hold up. That’s a nice towel. Barry could see himself all up in the folds of that towel.

Yeah.


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Midwestern Exposure

I’ve presented myself stark naked in front of hotel windows several times, because, you know, YOLO, and few people have ever made a thing out of it. Which is a shame. I can think of no greater lot in life than being at the epicenter of a quake that tears the news media apart, debating over whether one man’s junk is another broadcasting corporation’s treasure. I side with Prince Harry on this one, though it’s not even clear which side that might be, although certainly front side. Thus opens and closes my riffling through CNN for the month of August. Also, add breaking-and-entering to the list of things not to do around LL Cool J, right after fronting in your ride and declaring the unsexiness of fisher’s hats.

There are multiple correct ways to go about painting a classic car, and then there is the way shown at right. Unless Ford is rebooting the franchise and this is a 2013, someone dropped wads of cash on parts and took a long time on painstaking construction. The closest analogy I have is bodybuilding for a year straight and then joining Blue Man Group. Who gives a shit about what’s underneath. You’re blue. This car looks like it has liver spots. It’s the perfect vehicle for hunting senior citizens.

If there is a central theme of Kool Deadwood Nights, it is “old.” It seems as though it was supposed to be “cars;” a swing and a miss. This sounds heavy-handed, and indeed I judge them in their own house. I hypothesize that the age distribution in the area is a rising exponential. But the Jumbotron was like 30 feet from the stage, and the entire two block stretch was filled with orderly rows of lawn chairs. The concert ended by 9. Come on. Block parties themed in the 1900s have been done, and then, they’ve been done again. You’ve got real roots; try an 1800s weekend.

Tangentially related, something about music where all the words have a “yyrrah” sound at the end makes me want/need to windmill. Not because I’ve been seized by some idiot mosher’s version of the Spirit and now, oh, watch out other concert attendees, the Lord has called on me to testify. I assure you that it is strictly a murder response. I would never publicly admit to being inspired by things that annoy me, though I do syphon massive amounts of creative power from my rage font, which, like the rest of my body, runs dry in this environment. I attempt to fill it when I can, squeezing little out of littler still. Even so my mind has been a blank slate lately, with serenity and majesty or whatever everywhere I look. There are mountains fucking everywhere. There’s one right there. And deer and rabbits and giraffe. I forever face the dilemma of taking in the scene with repose or slamming a Dew and tearing up on some motorchair with wheels. I usually do neither and try to run; within a mile I begin to wonder if I have lungs constructed entirely out of asbestos, and then I remember that there is no oxygen at this altitude. I better be Superman when I get back to sea level, or I will be pissed and creative.